


Stay, I Pray You

by Cantique



Series: Empty Saddles, New Frontiers [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Sequel, Sequel to These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends, Shameless wish fullfillment, i got u, i know what the people want, i made up a slavic country for this and everything, it's anastasia with guns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantique/pseuds/Cantique
Summary: SEQUEL TO THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS HAVE VIOLENT ENDS. IM BACK, FAM.--Porosha is in a period of great dispute. Once a beloved Kingdom, the last two decades have been marked by revolt, murder and control. Where the Monarchy fell, a proud and uncompromising Republic stands. Following a new period of unrest, Overwatch has been deployed to covertly assist a small force of Loyalists in toppling the Republic and reforming the Monarchy by means of a faux Prince.But when the original plans fall apart and a keen eyed archer notices that with a little makeup, you could easily pass for the lost Princess, Jesse McCree decides it's time to improvise. All of a sudden, the fate of Porosha is on your shoulders, and the only things between your head and a bullet are an archer, a medic, and an obnoxious American in a cowboy hat who refuses to stop calling you darlin'.---Shameless Jesse McCree/Reader fic that follows the events of These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends. Like. It's shameless, I'm not kidding. Come get that serotonin. It's Anastasia with guns and I make no apologies.
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada/Original Female Character(s), Jesse McCree/Reader, Jesse McCree/You
Series: Empty Saddles, New Frontiers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/681596
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	1. The Skies Are Grey

Porosha has left a very funny taste in Jesse McCree’s mouth. There’s something… off. 

Logically, he knew when he received this mission that Porosha was going to try and trick him. From the perspective of a ‘tourist,’ Porosha is a beautiful country. It is politically speaking, a dictatorship - has been for the last decade or so - but  _ boy, _ does it know how to draw you in. 

From the second he stepped off the flight, it’s as though Jesse McCree has been absolutely assaulted by every pleasant thing Porosha has to throw at him. The hotel room, while absolutely bugged, is incredibly lavish for the tour package they’ve signed on to. There never seems to be any traffic when their tour group is travelling, nor are there any accidents. The food is incredibly decadent for a country where he knows the civilians are on rations, and every single woman he’s encountered, from their tour guide to the staff at the tourist traps, have been outrageously beautiful -- which might be a small consolation if his travelling companion would allow him to do anything but look and smile. 

Much like thought of bringing a cute Poroshan back to his hotel room, the image of Poroshan society being a utopia is an idea, an ideal situation. Angela noted very quickly that all the Poroshan women they’ve encountered have been not only beautiful, but fluent English speakers. Jesse has been keeping a count of cameras: 397 hidden, 376 on open display. 

Honestly, McCree isn’t sure if it would even fool a regular tourist group, let alone Overwatch Agents posing as a pair of academics studying for their Masters’ Degrees. Hell, anyone who’s watched the news in the last few years has probably seen  _ something _ about Porosha. Porosha: a united people’s nation torn asunder once more by the return of a loyalist front. Nearly ripped the country in two until the Poroshan Military came down hard on dissenters. Most of them have fleed to nearby Nezhnostisvky - a small nation between the borders of Porosha and Belarus.

Or, it’s a nation for now, anyway. The way the winds are blowing, it’ll probably become another Poroshan annex before the end of the year. And they’re about to ride a train straight through it.

Their bags settled into the small train cabin, McCree waits for Angela to securely lock the door and close the shutter before pulling back his sleeve and beginning to push at numerous buttons on his watch. He glances at her, giving a knowing look, and the display of the watch gives a short beep -- a holographic display almost spilling from the regular-looking watch face. With more functionality at his fingertips, he begins swiping and tapping at the holographic output, and sets up the system to scan for bugs in the cabin.

A few more beeps, and, lo and behold, there’s at least five bugs in this cabin alone -- which is, surprisingly, more than was in their hotel room. He presses a few more settings and with another beep, the red turns to green. The bugs have been neutralized, fed a false feed of regular, tourist-like chatter to keep up their cover. 

“We’re clear,” he finally exhales, his shoulder’s dropping. Admittedly, it hasn’t been much of a disguise. He’s been able to mostly play himself, although he’s definitely let Angela do the majority of the talking, but it’s good to not have to mince his words. 

Angela flops down into one of the seats, closing her eyes and rubbing at one of her temples. “Thank heavens,” she sighs. “How long until we’re there?”

He shrugs. He might be tired, but Angela is downright exhausted. Unlike McCree, Angela isn’t used to these covert missions, and while she’s done a great job, it’s definitely taken a psychological toll on her. “Three or so hours, I reckon.” He shoots her a smile as he takes his own seat. “Not a fan of Porosha, I take it?”

“No,” she exhales, shaking her head. “I did not like being watched like that.”

McCree, unable to help himself, smirks. “You’re in Overwatch, Angie. You and I been under surveillance more than anyone in Porosha, I reckon,” he jokes. “Only reason you don’t worry ‘bout it back on base is ‘cause they ain’t so in ya’ face ‘bout it.”

“Exactly,” she replies. “Porosha wants you to know.”

“Got that right,” he mumbles, taking off his watch and placing it on the table between them. With another beep, it projects a hologram of their plans. There’s some new and old faces, maps, data. But McCree knows Angela can get by with a brief. “So. Nezhnostisvky.”

Angela nods. “What is the plan, then?” She asks. He’s already given her most of the information, of course, but some of the details had to wait. If things went sideways, they couldn’t risk her potentially giving anything away under interrogation. The same went for McCree -- even he didn’t receive the last of the dossier until last night. 

“You know about the Vasiliev family?” He asks her.

She nods along. “They royal family of Porosha before the revolution. I’m familiar.” 

“Good. Not exactly something they talked about on the tour,” he adds, a chuckle under his breath. “As I’m sure you’re aware, when the Vasilievs were in power the Porosha was a monarchy, it was a very different place. Real diplomatic ground, lotta the best trade came through here, too.”

“It was a tax haven,” she corrects. McCree can’t help himself, smiling, a bit taken off guard by Angela’s blunt approach. It’s probably because she’s so tired, but it’s an unusual sight, indeed. 

“That’s one way o’ puttin’ it, yeah,” he admits. “Anyway, there’s more than a handful of countries who’d like Porosha t’ go back to being th’ Kingdom of Porosha instead of th’ Republic of Porosha, n’ they’ve asked us to step in n’ lend a hand.” He reaches forward and swipes at the hologram, switching the display to a photograph of the former royal family. There’s five in the image: The King, The Queen, two boys, and one girl. “When the revolution happened, as we all know, the Royal family went uh… well, I don’t gotta tell ya’ what the Military meant by ‘missing.’ All the bodies’ been recovered over th’ last ten years, ‘cept fer Princess Maria,” he explains, pointing to the teenage girl in the photograph, “n’ Prince Viktor.” 

He swipes again at the image, swapping it for a dossier of an older man in a military uniform. “Now, that big ol’ group o’ countries been sending the Loyalists funding n’ supplies fer a while now, but what they really want is an excuse to roll their own militaries into Porosha. But they can’t jus’ do that without a good reason. Luck would have it, though, that the Loyalists managed to recruit this here guy,” he points at the uniformed man’s photo, “who bares quite th’ resemblance to Prince Viktor. So, as I’m told, th’ plan is t’ get Viktor t’ some family outta’ th’ country, ‘ave ‘im pass as Prince Viktor, n’ give those other countries a valid reason t’ roll on in.”

Angela raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “They think anyone is going to buy that?” She asks. “What if they ask for DNA evidence?”

McCree’s eyes drift up to the suitcases in the rack above her head. “We bought some special tricks with us. Satya’ reckon’s the nantotech she’s prepped’ll mask his DNA or…” he shrugs. “Look, I ain’t no scientist, you know that. Point is that it’ll be enough to give ‘em an  _ excuse. _ Sides,” he says, reaching forward and pressing a button on the side of the watch, shutting off the hologram. “I’m told they’ve had ‘im trainin’ fer over a year now. Knows what t’ say, how to act, everythin’ he’ll need. Prince was six when he went missin’, can’t imagine there’s not a lot he can improv.” 

“Right.” She rests back into her seat. “And we’re evacuating him?”

“Yep,” he confirms. “Zarya and Hanzo already done most of th’ work, t’ be honest. All we gotta’ do is get ‘im onto a boat that’ll be waitin’ fer us and off t’ his cousin in Sweden.”

Angela closes her eyes. “And we spent two weeks in Porosha for that. Of course.” She rolls her shoulders, clearly displeased. Unfortunately, it was necessary. Zarya will need to stay in Nezhnostisvky to help coordinate further action once not-Viktor is in Sweden and the real action begins, and Hanzo… Hanzo has a young child to get home to. He shouldn’t have even been on the mission in the first place, in McCree’s opinion, but the earlier part of the job required a sniper. Hanzo’s never been one to turn down a call out. 

McCree’s jaw tenses as he puts his watch back on. June is Hanzo’s daughter’s name, and it’s probably best he not think about her  _ or _ her mother right now. He’s glad she’s happy, but he’s  _ not  _ happy that she’s still on base. Immediate family or not, having a baby in a watchpoint is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“Well, it’s almost over,” he exhales, kicking his legs up onto his seat. He could get the sheets provided and set it up as a bed, as is intended, but that would be effort -- and when it’s time to go, he’ll have to do so at a moment’s notice. “Good chance to get some shuteye. Can’t imagine things at the Loyalist base will be as comfortable as this.”

With that, he lays back and tilts his hat over his eyes. He can hear her stand, the rustling of fabric following. Of course she’s setting her bed up. It’s Angela. 

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” her voice says, followed by the sound of fabric sliding against fabric, Angela presumably climbing into the bed. 

“...Not our call, unfortunately,” McCree replies.

* * *

You absolutely cannot  _ stand _ Ivan. 

When he first joined the Crown Protectorate, he was like most other recruits: eager, enthusiastic and most of all, willing to listen to orders. But ever since Mikhael decided that Ivan was going to be ‘our’ Prince Viktor, he’s… 

There’s no other way to put it. He has his head up his ass. 

Ivan has an important job, yes. He is, you keep telling yourself, the key to the movement succeeding. But this is still a small unit. You need all hands on deck. Ivan’s hands are full of cards and cigarettes, so, once again, it falls to you to clean the rifles by yourself. You can hear Ivan shouting and laughing from the central room, a communal space used for meetings, meals, and drinking. He is, no doubt, entertaining the foreigners again. 

The foreigners are… interesting. There’s two on base at the moment, with two more arriving tonight. You don’t mind them, really. Zarya is good to have around when doing manual tasks, and while your English is good, it’s easier to communicate with her -- even if there’s some differences between Russian and Poroshan. You prefer Hanzo, however. He’s a… we’ll, he’s a nice change. Something about being in hiding makes most of the men here stir-crazy. Lots of drinking, lots of yelling, lots of fist fights. Hanzo is quiet. He’s respectful, and, as he sits down next to you and takes a rifle from your ‘to do’ pile, is more helpful than you assumed when he first arrived.

You share a small smile with him -- it’s not the first time he’s seemingly appeared out of nowhere to help you, and while you were a little suspicious of his intentions at first, you’ve come to appreciate it. He hasn’t tried anything yet, and you have your doubts he ever will. “You are not drinking?” You ask, eyes glancing momentarily towards the roar of Zarya’s laughter. “Zarya seems to be having a good time.”

He chuckles at this, starting to disassemble the rifle in his hands. “I believe it should be obvious by now that Zarya and I have different ideas of ‘a good time.” He pauses, looking to her for a moment. “You should go join them. I find this job to be soothing. I am happy to do it.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m happier here. Really.” You offer him a little smile, unclipping part of a rifle and setting it aside.

“Even though Ivan will be leaving soon?” He asks. You don’t respond, focusing on your work for a moment. “Ah. I see. Perhaps his leaving will be beneficial for you, then.”

You shrug. “Ivan is… I’m sure he will pass for a Prince very well.” It’s a diplomatic way of putting it, but you don’t want to seem against the cause.

“You find him arrogant, then?” He asks.

“Absolutely.” At this, the ‘professional’ air you’ve been trying to uphold is gone, and you can’t withhold the laughter that follows. You look at Hanzo. He’s smiling. This is a safe person to have this conversation with, not that you ever fully doubted that. “He is so loud, and rude,” you explain, your voice quiet. “And the way he speaks to women? You would think god put us all here for his pleasure.” 

There’s a silence for a moment, only filled by the sounds of gun parts clicking open and closed. Eventually, Hanzo exhales. “I do not think you will get along with Jesse.”

“Jesse?” You ask.

He hands you the body of a rifle he’s pulled apart. It’s ready to be cleaned. “One of the Overwatch Agents who will be joining us,” he explains. “I suppose he will only be here a short time, but… he is of…” there’s a pause. “My partner would describe him in a similar way at times.”

“He has given you trouble, then?” You ask. “You are not friends?”

“On the contrary,” he corrects, a slight chuckle under his breath. “He is one of my closest friends. If not for him, I would not have my daughter, or her mother. But…” he inhales slowly for a second, pausing to click a scope apart. “I am all the more aware of his faults.”

You give a grunt of acknowledgement, clipping a part back onto the rifle body that you’ve just cleaned out. “Well, he will only be here a short time, as you said.” You glance at him for a second. “You will go home after they take Ivan?” You ask. 

“Yes,” he says decisively with a nod, a tiny smile creeping up on his expression. You wonder if he’s even aware of it. “I am taking some leave. It will be nice to spend some time with my children. I have not seen my son for a few months. And you?” He asks. “Will you go with Ivan and the others?”

You shake your head. “No, I will stay here, where I am needed.” You exhale, placing the cleaned rifle in the pile of already serviced guns. “Only Ivan will go with your friends. Anyone else and we’d raise suspicion.” You pause, taking an actual  _ look _ at Hanzo. When you were first told there were foreigners coming to help, you weren’t confident. Most ‘outside’ help the Protectorate has received in the past has refused to get too involved, not wanting to be on the front lines, not wanting to get caught and ‘offend’ the Poroshan Republic. But Overwatch has been different. They’ve been on the front lines. You’ve watched Hanzo shoot down Poroshan Military with your own eyes. And now they’re sending  _ more _ help so the Protectorate can fulfill the single biggest gamble they’ve taken since fleeing to Nezhnostisvky. 

Others wanted things to deescalate, but Overwatch wants you to find victory. You can appreciate that. 

“For what it is worth,” you eventually say, “I hope we see eachother again one day. You are not what I expected from Overwatch.”

He smiles. “What  _ did  _ you expect?”

You shrug. “I don’t know… Americans. Loud. Obnoxious and drunk. You know, the ones who come here and talk about Poroshan women like we’re there to decorate the room. They drink all the kompot and smoke in the bedrooms. Those.”

He gives a sharp exhale. “You are… not going to like Jesse,” Hanzo says under his breath. “And after the war?” He asks quickly, as though trying to cover his slip up. “What will you do?”

You pause. You… haven’t really given this much thought -- not since fleeing to Nezhnostisvky, anyway. You don’t have anyone to return to in Porosha; you’ve been a child of the state since you can remember. You were found in the wreckage of the Sapsan train bombing, your father dead in the wreck. It’s all very fuzzy. Part of the trauma, you’re told, but there’s no one waiting for you in Porosha, and there’ll be no reunions. “I don’t know,” you finally say. “I will continue to serve the Protectorate, I suppose,” you shrug. “Maybe I will finish my studies. I was half way through my English Language degree when the conflict broke out.”

“I see. Well, I hope you--”

The door slams open, causing you both to jump somewhat. It’s Mikhael, and there’s about four or five of your comrades behind him. “The train is nearing our blockaide,” he announces. It’s all part of the plan to get the other Overwatch agents off the train without raising too much suspicion: the Protectorate has placed a ‘blockaide’ (a mini van) on the tracks, and will call it in with the Poroshan authorities with enough time to stop the train. The agents will escape the train, meet the Protectorate in the nearby woods, and be brought back to base. 

“It is time, then?” Hanzo asks, standing up. He reaches out and offers you his hand. 

It is time.

* * *

You’re unsure what to make of the new foreigners. On one hand, the woman, Angela, seems kind -- if not incredibly tired. That is to be expected, however. She has been friendly, if not a little quiet. She’s a medic, you’re told. Part of you wishes she was staying -- medics are far and few between these days. 

The other one, though? 

He’s almost a stereotype. A cowboy, hat and all. You thought Hanzo was an anomaly, but this man? You quickly glance between him and Hanzo. Hanzo, bundled up in a winter jacket, is almost run-of-the-mill in comparison. 

“Well,” he finally announces, straightening up in the backseat of the small van you all sit in the back of. “Guess I’d better introduce m’self,” he announces. He extends his hand out to Mikhael, the two meeting grips for a solid handshake. “Jesse McCree.”

“Mikhael Lebedev,” Mikhael responds. “Is good to have you here.” Mikhael glances to you quickly, as though to seek your approval. His english is not bad by any means, and it’s more than enough to get him by in most situations, but he lacks confidence.

“This here is Angela Ziegler,” McCree says as Mikhael reaches out to shake her hand in turn. “Our attendin’ medic.” The cowboy’s eyes drift to you. “N’ this is…?”

You don’t respond, staring at him silently, assuming someone will answer for you. Mikhael, however, has frozen, probably second guessing his english or finding it hard to understand McCree’s accent.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he says with a smile. “Assumed ya’ spoke engli--”

“I am the translator,” you reply bluntly, followed by your name. 

Mikhael laughs nervously. “Is true! Best english in Protectorate!” 

“Right.” McCree withdraws his hand, presumably reading the room. “So, what’s the situation regardin’ the boat?”

Mikhael is finally out of his depth, looking to you for help. “Американец хочет знать, готова ли лодка,” you explain. 

“Ohhh,” Mikhael nods, delivering his answer back to you in Poroshan, before you return your attention back to McCree.

“The boat will be ready tomorrow evening,” you relay. “You will be staying at our base until then.” You glance to Angela. “It will be a good chance to eat and rest.”

“Good chance t’ meet the Prince, too,” McCree adds.

You give him a smile, although it’s probably clear to Hanzo and Mikhael that it’s a fake one. “As well as you can get to know someone that drunk.”

The van pulls to a stop and Mikhael slides open the door, the group of you piling out and into the snow outside the base. Something is off, though. Instead of going straight inside, there’s three of Mikhael’s men outside, all three of them looking… almost afraid. 

“Mikhael,” one begins, urgency in his voice. “Что-то ужасное случилось с Иваном.”

“Что это? Скажите мне.” Mikhael asks. 

You know the foreigners don’t understand a word of this as Mikhael’s men deliver the news in Poroshan, but the way your hand flies to your mouth and your eyes widen is a dead giveaway that it isn’t good. 

“What is wrong?” Hanzo finally asks, taking a step forward in the snow. 

You turn to face the three foreigners, all of them visibly confused, although Hanzo and the Cowboy seem down-right concerned. You consider waiting for Mikhael to give you the go-ahead before telling them, but you notice that McCree has a hand on the gun holstered to his belt. They’re on guard for some kind of attack. Might as well come out with it.

“Ivan is dead.” 


	2. The Biggest Con in History

Mikhael is inconsolable, pacing about the meeting room with his hands on his head, a stream of expletives spewing from his mouth in Poroshan. You’re not sure if he’s furious or in the throws of grief -- it’s probably both, honestly.

“I don’t understand,” Angela says, running a hand through her hair. “What exactly happened?”

“The idiot said he wanted to go rabbit hunting,” Zarya explains, her arms crossed, looking more angry at the situation than anything else. “We told him no, but he took his drunk ass into the armory when he told us he was taking piss.” 

“Вы контролировали его!” Mikhael shouts at Zarya. “Он был с тобой один час! Он выстрелил себе в голову! Ты спал!?” 

“Не обвиняй меня!” Zarya shouts back, gesturing at Mikhael. “Ты блин!”

The two begin arguing back and forth in a bizarre mix of Russian and Poroshan, which is understandable but jargled, and all of a sudden you feel the eyes of every English-speaker in the room settle on you. You know they’re expecting a translation, and while you’re sure some of them want a blow-by-blow interpretation of the argument taking place, you’d rather get to the point than have to explain what  _ blin _ means. “He is saying that Ivan shot himself in the head.” You look to Angela. “I assume while finding a gun to go ‘hunting’ with.”

McCree gives a long, exacerbated sigh, squeezing his eyes shut and scratching at his beard. “So whatta’ we do?” He asks. 

You turn to Mikhael to translate, but he’s currently screaming at Zarya, who is slamming her fists on the table in front of her as she screams back. You’re not going to get an answer out of him. “I don’t know,” you admit, turning back to the three foreigners who  _ aren’t _ currently screaming at someone. You look around the room -- it’s an old dining room you’ve repurposed, the walls decorated with maps, notes, and pictures of the old Royal family. It’s then it begins to dawn on you that over a year of work - a year of suffering Ivan, a year of hiding out from the Poroshan Military - has been wasted. You pull a chair out from the table and take a seat, trying to hold it together. You feel like crying, but you’re unsure if it’s frustration, anger, or regret. “No Ivan means no Viktor, and no Viktor means no plan.” 

You lean into the back of the chair, defeated, a strange feeling of exhaustion washing over it. It’s like the last year has finally caught up with you, or like your body is trying to protect you from what you  _ should _ be feeling by making you feel immensely tired, instead. You notice that Hanzo’s eyes are locked on you, but really, you’re much too preoccupied with the thought of having to spend more time than you’d planned hiding on this base. And Mikhael’s screaming is making that sound more and more unpleasant with every waking moment. Maybe, if you ask nicely enough, they’ll take you to Sweden instead. You’re not sure what you can do there without papers, but maybe--

“Wait,” Hanzo says, stepping forward. Zarya and Mikhael don’t notice, of course, and continue arguing in the background, but he manages to catch the attention of Angela and McCree. He takes another step towards you, his gaze moving to something behind you before returning to your face. He crosses his arms, eyes flicking back and forth between you and whatever’s behind you. 

Unsure what’s going on, you twist around in your chair to try and figure out what he’s doing. There’s not much behind you, really; an empty couch, a bookshelf, an old photo of the Vasiliev family on the wall. “What is it?” You ask, turning back to face him. 

He doesn’t respond, instead walking straight past you. You twist around again to see what he’s doing, and you catch him pulling the photo down from the wall. “All this time, I have thought your face to look familiar,” he says, seemingly to himself, as he returns to you, photo in hand. He stands before you again, holding the photo up beside your face, looking back and forth between it and you. Hanzo tilts his head a little to the side, “look,” he instructs his friends, who immediately approach, much to your confusion.

“What am I lookin’ at?” McCree asks, squinting at the photo.

Whatever it is, though, Angela seems to notice it immediately, giving a surprised blink and leaning in a little. “Oh, my! Yes!” She gasps, smiling for what is the first time you’ve witnessed. It’s such a beautiful smile that you’re distracted by it for a moment. “If we did her hair the same way…” she says to herself, her eyes now following the same pattern as Hanzo’s, “and with a little makeup…”

“Can someone  _ please _ tell me what ya’ll are on about?” McCree asks, his tone impatient.

“Yes, please?” You agree, equally as confused. “What are you doing?”

“You have the same features as Princess Maria,” Angela explains, taking the photo from Hanzo’s hands and giving it to you to inspect. “It’s uncanny. I am honestly surprised you have not been told this before.”

You stare the photo down. Sure, you have the same color hair, maybe, but you’re not seeing it. “I uh…” You want to protest, but the photo is immediately snatched out of your hands.

“Now hold up jus’ a second,” McCree interjects, photo in his hands, looking at Angela and Hanzo as though they’ve just told him pigs fly. “Ya’ll are seriously tellin’ me that…” He looks at the photo. Then to you. “...Well,” he laughs, smiling a little. His smile is just a little bit sideways, and it makes you a little anxious. “I’ll be damned. Ya’ll might not be twins, but yer at least cousins, I reckon.”

“This is ridiculous,” you argue, shaking your head. “I look nothing like her. You are desperate for a solution to--”

“How old are you, darlin’?” McCree asks, an eyebrow raised. “Early twenties?”

“....Twenty six,” you hesitantly reply. “And don’t call me ‘darling.’”

He pays your request little attention. “Princess Maria was, what, fourteen when the revolution happened? Reckon’ ‘yall are ‘bout the same age.” 

It starts to dawn on you where this is going. Or, well, it did early, but you’re only just starting to entertain it. “Oh, no,” you laugh, deciding to process it as a joke. “I could never--”

“I reckon we toss you in a bath, get ya’ a nice dress or two n’ teach ya’ how t’ lighten up a little, an you could pass fer Princess Maria without a hitch,” he muses. 

You poise yourself to argue, but you notice that the shouting has stopped, and when you turn to see what’s happened, you realize that Zarya and Mikhael are both staring at you. “Mikhael,” you warn. 

He quickly crosses the room, joining the others in inspecting the photo. His eyes widen, and he reaches out, pushing your hair out of your face much to your horror. “... _ Cyka blyat! _ ” He gasps. 

You quickly stand, causing everyone who has been standing too close to jump back. “This is ridiculous!” You exclaim. “I am  _ not _ posing as Princess Maria! No!” Unable to even so much as think of a follow up, you storm out of the room, heading to your quarters. This is too bizarre, and it is not what you signed up for. 

* * *

The quarters in the base are meant to be shared, but one of the few benefits of being one of the only women on base is that you have them all to yourself most of the time. The few other women in the Protectorate are field agents, usually intelligence, and they only usually pass through. You sit on your bunk, arms crossed, unsure what to do now that you’ve spent an hour ignoring the constant knocking on the locked door. It seems everyone has tried to convince you spare for Hanzo and Angela. The American was particularly insistent.

Another knock, this one a little lighter. “I told you,” you call to the door, “the answer is no!”

“Actually, I was hoping to go to bed,” a new voice calls from the other side. It’s Angela. You consider still refusing, but you remember how tired she looked -- and she’s one of the only ones who hasn’t bashed on the door demanding you come back to discuss this plan. 

You give an exhale and rise from the bunk, unlocking the door and allowing the medic to enter with her bag. “Thank you,” she says with a gentle smile. “I am exhausted.” You gesture to the bed you had prepared for her before her arrival, and she places her back on the end, beginning to unpack her things as you return to your bunk. “If I might say so,” she begins, her voice gentle. You can assume she’s attempting to make amends. “You have made quite the impression on Hanzo.”

You don’t respond verbally, but she glances back to you and you share a look, your eyes meeting. 

“He speaks very highly of you,” she continues, removing pyjamas from her bag and placing them on the bunk, neatly folded. “And your abilities. It sounds like the Loyalists are lucky to have you.”

“Protectorate,” you correct. Foreigners always seem to get the name wrong, choosing to boil down the conflict to something as black and white as ‘loyal’ and ‘not loyal.’ 

She nods. “Ah, the Protectorate,” she repeats, “my apologies. Well, the Protectorate is lucky to have you. Hanzo is not generally someone who is easily impressed,” she explains. “He defended you very fiercely.”

You raise an eyebrow, suddenly keenly interested in what she has to say. “Defended?”

“Oh, well,” she gives you an apologetic smile. “When you refused to speak to Jesse, he… had some opinions about the plan.” She shakes her head quickly, “it does not matter, though. What matters is--”

“What did he say?” You ask, fully sitting up. 

She hesitates, but relents, her shoulders dropping. You can assume she’s far too tired to argue this. “Jesse… had some opinions about your suitability. He… well… he is hesitant to work with difficult people and--” 

“I am  _ not _ difficult!” You interrupt. How dare he call  _ you _ difficult?! He has no idea how long you’ve been here, or how much you’ve done for the Protectorate. 

“W-well,” Angela stammers, eyes wide, realizing she’s causing conflict. “Not  _ difficult, _ more that he thought you weren’t competent.” She freezes. “Uh. No. That you were scared to--”

You stand up, jaw tense. How  _ dare _ he?! Americans are always like this, wandering into places they don’t belong and acting as though they run the place, behaving like they understand every nuance of a situation they’ve barely glanced over. Without a word, you unlock the door and storm out of the room, stopping each doorway you pass to check if he’s inside. 

You finally find him in the kitchen, sitting at the small card table set up by the counter, a drink in hand as he scrolls through his phone. “You need to leave,” you say firmly, your fists balled up. “I will not be going with you, so there is no point in you staying here.”

McCree puts his phone down and leans back into his chair, taking a long look at you, sizing you up. Eventually, he shakes his head, turning his attention back to his phone. “Actually, Mikhael said we could camp here ‘long as we needed,” he says, a little smirk in the corner of his mouth as he glances up at you, waiting to see you react. “I might send Angie ‘n Hanzo home, but now that ya’ll ain’t got a Prince t’ pass off anymore, reckon’ I might need t’ stay back. Lend a hand.”

“You will do no such thing!” You snap. “We do not need you here. We can take care of ourselves.”

“Now,  _ that, _ ” he begins, setting his phone down and locking eyes with you, “‘s where I think ya’ might be mistaken’, darlin’,” he begins. You open your mouth to, again, demand he stop calling you that, but he doesn’t let you get a word in, actually going as far as to raise the volume of his voice a little to drown yours out. “See, I been lookin’ round, doin’ a lil’ research, talkin’ t’ Mikhael. This a nice lil’ hideout ya’ll got here, but ya’ll are kiddin’ ya’selves if ya’ll think the Poroshans couldn’t find it if they really wanted. N’ while yer’ puttin’ on a brave face, well… how many units ya’ got?” He asks.

You hesitate, not wanting to answer, but he’s admittedly got your interest. “...Food, or people?” You ask.

“People.”

You take a second to perform some math. “Fifteen here,” you begin, counting in your head. “Twelve undercover in Porosha, and thirty five in hiding elsewhere.”

“Right,” he replies with a nod. “By my math, that’s forty seven people. Ya’ll ain’t even got fifty people left. Th’ Poroshan Military, by my count, has at least thirty thousand bodies. Reckon’ that’s not much of a match.”

Technically, he’s right. Your numbers have absolutely dwindled following the exodus to Nezhnostisvky. Arrests and firefights have brought you down from a force of about a thousand guerilla fighters, and people quitting in fear didn’t help. “The people of Porosha will stand with us when we return,” you argue.

He scoffs at this, almost wincing at it. “C’mon!” He laughs. “I know we jus’ met, but th’ way Hanzo talks ‘bout ya, I  _ know _ you’re smarter than parrotin’ yer party line!” He leans onto the table to, somehow, get closer to you, like he’s sharing a secret. “Writin’s on the wall, darlin’.”

Your jaw is so tense that it’s starting to give you a headache. Unfortunately, he’s correct. You  _ are  _ smarter than that, and you know this idiot of a man is right. You’ll be lucky to last another two months, let alone the winter. “Don’t call me  _ darling, _ ” you finally reply, every muscle in your face fighting to stop you sneering at the cowboy that’s smirking at you.

“Well, if ya’ come with us t’ Sweden, I’ll stop callin’ you darlin’ and start callin’ ya  _ Your Majesty. _ ”

You’ve had enough, turning to leave, but he calls out to you. “Wait!” There’s urgency in his voice. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.” You pause. An apology. Not what you expected. “Look, I think we got off on th’ wrong foot. Let’s try again,” he tapps on the surface of the table. “Sit down n’ tell me why ya’ don’t wanna do it.”

You look at the chair, then at him, turning back to face him. You’re not going to sit. “Why  _ would _ I?” You ask, crossing your arms. “Think of what you’re asking me to do. You are asking me to spend the rest of my life pretending to be someone I’m not.”

He nods, lifting his eyebrows, his expression one of acceptance. “‘Kay, can’t fault ya’ on that. It’s a big ask. More than I’d usually aska’ a stranger, I’ll admit. But, look,” he shifts in his seat. “I been t’ Porosha. ‘Was parta’ one o’ them tour groups, sure, but I spenda’ lotta’ time in places I shouldn’t be. Parta’ th’ job. Reckon’ ya’ could say I gotta’ trained eye.” He taps on the table again, this time taking the time to gesture to the seat on the opposite side. You’re downright curious now about where he’s going with this, and you decide to humor him, taking the seat as he continues. “Lotta’ cameras. Lotta’ controlled media. Lotta’ empty buildings and no people in th’ stores. Tyudovo’s a nice capital city, but I reckon’ if we founda’ way t’ get outta’ there n’ see what Porosha’s like fer’ regular folk like you, it ain’t that nice. N’ I got it on pretty good authority that things could be a lot better with some international help.”

You give an exhale. Again, he’s not wrong. You were a child of the state in Porosha, you  _ know _ how rough it can be. 

“‘Sides,” he adds. “You’d be trading a life o’... this,” he says, gesturing around the room, “fer a life o’ luxury. I hear th’ Vasiliev’s hadda’ lotta’ ties out there. Reckon you’d be set up pretty well.”

“I’m not… I can’t run a country,” you insist. “I don’t want to.”

“Pfft,” he laughs. “You think we were gonna let Ivan run th’ country? Nah. His job was ta’ install a parliament o’ sorts t’ run things. You’d have veto power, ‘course, which we might ask ya’ t’ use every now n’ then, but other than that? You’d be a free woman.”

“I don’t care about that,” you say quickly. You’re a little heated. He’s, honestly, making sense. Too much sense.

“Look, darlin’,” he says with an exhale. “I can’t force ya’ t’ do nothin’. But I’m bein 100% honest with ya’ when I say that you’ll do more fer ya’ Protectorate than you can do here.” He stands from the table, throwing back the last of his drink, and places the glass back down. “Jus’ think ‘bout it.”

You watch in silence as he walks out of the room, the uncomfortable truth sinking in: he’s completely right. 

_ Blin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter, but the meaty-stuff is on the way. Promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, this is basically gonna be Anastasia with guns and stuff and the ending is probably gonna be a bit different to what you expect, but who knows?   
> I speak like, very little Russian so I'm sorry if that made no sense. I just like how cyrillic looks.


End file.
